More Than Anything
by Old English D
Summary: A story with no point and no real insight, just the ramblings of someone who's never written anything playing with two of her favorite characters.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I don't own the characters created by Erle Stanley Gardner, but I've known and loved them for more years than I care to admit._

_Backstory: This is what results when you are unemployed, desperate for something to fill time after you've re-watched all 5 seasons of PM as well as all the TV movies, re-read the books, watched over 400 episodes of Gunsmoke, and listened to over 200 radio Gunsmoke epispdes. You become desperate for something stimulating, so you smush together facets of the novels and the TV show and type late into the night, not caring that there isn't much of a plot, but pleased that your grammar skills are still sharp after 6 months of talking to hardly anyone but the cats._

Part One

The dying man's confession sickened her.

She desperately wanted to flee, but by sheer force of will kept her hand steady and concentrated on the dying man's halting speech so as not to miss a single word. After nearly twenty minutes of confessions and recriminations, the man expelled his last breath and the twenty-odd officers assembled began to disperse. She dated and signed her notes then silently handed the entire notebook to the ranking officer, a bespectacled captain she knew only by reputation. He flipped through the notebook, looked at her over the tops of horn-rimmed glasses, and in a gruff voice thanked her. He then said he'd like her to think about becoming a police stenographer. She managed a wan smile and politely declined. It was the third time a ranking officer had offered her a position with the force, which made it abundantly clear to her that she spent entirely too much time at crime scenes. The captain invited her to call him if she changed her mind, told her she didn't have to remain in the bungalow, but to please not leave the scene until it was determined if she was needed for anything else.

She walked quickly through the bullet-riddled, blood-splattered kitchen, out the back door and down rickety wooden steps, past a group of three uniformed officers smoking cigarettes and jovially congratulating one another on the outcome of the shootout, across the unkempt rear lawn of the dead man's bungalow toward the outline of an automobile in the hazy warmth of the summer night. When her feet crunched on a strip of gravel between the grass and the alley pavement, Perry Mason turned quickly at the sound, tossed away a cigarette, and strode toward her with long-legged quickness.

For a moment they stood facing each other, mere inches apart, and then Perry reached out and gathered Della Street to him. "You okay?" he asked gently.

She nodded against his chest. "He knew he was dying and gave a full confession. But he wasn't in the least remorseful about anything, Chief, not even for what Dinah Manning has gone through because of him."

Perry hugged her closer. "Men like that rarely are. Let's get you out of here."

Della shook her head. "The captain said to stick around."

He gave her one last squeeze, took her hand in his and led her back to the car.

* * *

><p>Della tried to surreptitiously stifle a yawn behind her hand, but Perry caught the motion out of the corner of his eye and gently linked his arm through hers to pull her closer to his side. She sighed, leaned her head against his shoulder, and let out an impressively vocal yawn that caused Perry to grin broadly in the semi-darkness.<p>

"They should let us go any minute, Della. Then I'll take you straight home to bed."

"Promises, promises," she mumbled.

Perry shot her a look, but her upturned face was devoid of expression.

"It's getting to be quite a habit of the police department to take advantage of your stenographic skills." Perry tried to keep the hint of annoyance out of his voice at the opportunistic way the police had recruited Della to take the dying man's statement. She had taken many confessions while working on cases, several at the request of the police, but never the final words of a man facing the end of his life. She had followed Holcomb without hesitation when apprised of the man's imminent death, but it still irked him the police had involved her in the resultant violence of the situation. A situation he was all too aware he had played a major role in setting up.

"That new captain with the thick glasses offered me a job." She announced nonchalantly, stifling another yawn.

Perry was stunned. Rotten cops. "Will I find your resignation on my desk in the morning?"

Her hands closed around his arm as she lifted her head, half-parted lips tilted toward him invitingly. She waited a few seconds for him to accept the invitation, then snaked her right hand up his chest and around the back of his neck, pulling his head down to hers. The kiss was long and deep, simultaneously teasing and surrendering, her lips taking from him, asking for more, accepting and allowing his ardent exploration. Long moments later she gently pushed him away with a soft sigh.

"Don't be silly," she admonished, then added, "They can't pay me nearly the salary you do."

Perry chuckled as she settled into the crook of his arm, her head once again resting on his shoulder. "You do realize you wasted a perfect opportunity to leverage that job offer into a raise," he pointed out.

"I didn't waste any opportunity," she replied with calm assuredness. "Stop grinning so smugly."

His grin grew wider. "Smugness doesn't make me grin. Pure delight makes me grin."

"It's not the first job offer I've received, you know."

"No," he managed to sound casual, "I don't know."

"Some were serious, some were flirtatious." Her right hand once again began to slide across his chest, coming to rest in the hollow where his neck met his shoulder.

Following her lead, his left arm circled her, pulling her closer. His heart began to beat faster, due to the combination of her fragrant closeness and indignation that attempts had been made to lure her from him. "Are you going to tell me who made either type of offer?" He began mentally rounding up suspects and plotting retribution.

"Nope." She yawned again, replete with a vocalization she called "singing". Singing yawns occurred only when she was _**most definitely**_ tired. It was another of her habits that charmed him. Most definitely.

What was keeping Holcomb? Perry stared out the foggy windshield across the alley toward the dead man Kent Fornier's dilapidated bungalow. They should have been released from the scene by now. Della needed sleep. He needed a cold shower. And a drink. Maybe two drinks. Maybe two cold showers.

"Am I to conclude that after these unsubstantiated offers you took advantage of me in some manner, as you did just now?" He wanted her engaged and alert, not to fall asleep in the car, only to be awakened when Holcomb finally plodded up to either ask more questions or tell them their presence was no longer required.

"Did I take advantage of you, Mr. Mason? I got the impression you were a willing participant." The fingers of her right hand began to play with the hair at the back of his neck, while her left hand found its way beneath his suit coat. She was fully in his arms now, and he in hers. In the dim light he could just make out the features of her extraordinary face. His left hand fell from her waist to her hip and pulled her leg over his thigh. She moaned, a quiet, throaty sound that crept into his heart and spread warmth throughout his body with every beat. His hand continued down her hip to her thigh, to the hem of the conveniently full skirt of her dress. He hesitated. She arched her back, pressing her softness against him, and he boldly slid his hand beneath the skirt to rest on her slender thigh. The moan he heard this time was his.

The kiss began with tentative little nibbles at each other's bottom lips, interspersed with Perry's gentle grazing of her cheeks, eyelids, and jawline. When he brought his attention back to her lips and felt them yield beneath his, Perry tightened his hold, pulled her up so that she was straddling his thigh, and took full possession of her mouth. She wrapped both arms around his neck and met his advance head-on with enthusiasm.

He had never desired a woman as he desired Della, had never waited so long to manifest his desire physically with a woman. He loved her, had probably loved her at first sight when she entered his office for her interview. She possessed everything he found lacking in other women, and he had realized rather quickly after hiring her that she was the woman he was destined to be with, the woman who comfortably filled his empty spaces and endlessly fascinated him.

Somehow the pearl buttons of her dress were undone and his hands were beneath her skirt, cupped over her bottom, holding her against the fervent proof of his desire. The languid pace of their kisses had given way to inflamed urgency as the walls of employer/employee civility crumbled, to be replaced by a new and thrillingly natural intimacy.

However, when she would have willingly taken an irrevocable leap, his hand closed about hers at his belt buckle and held it between their bodies. Lips still clinging to hers, he mastered the driving force of his passion and uttered the most difficult words ever. "Not here, baby. Holcomb could sneak up at any moment."

She let out a loud sigh as she collapsed against his chest, her hand still trapped by his. "Who would have thought you'd be the sensible one."

Perry chuckled softly and hugged her fiercely with his free arm. "You have no idea how difficult that was."

"I think I have a fairly accurate idea." She pushed herself up from his chest to fix a level gaze at him in the darkened, steamy atmosphere of the car.

He kissed her quickly, and matched her level gaze. "Holcomb aside, I'm not going to rush into anything, Della."

"Rush!" She exclaimed incredulously. "Two years is _**rushing**_?"

He grinned lopsidedly. "Actually, it won't be two years until next week Thursday."

She stared at him in surprise. "You remember what day I came to work for you?"

"No, I remember the day I met you. Two years ago next week Thursday. I remembered it last year, too, if you recall."

She silently regarded him as she absorbed his words. "Men always remember the first year. Do you have something you want to say to me?"

He blinked. Sometimes her intuitiveness frightened him. "All I'm prepared to say is that the instant you walked in for your interview, I knew you would change my life."

She extricated her hand from his and wrapped both arms around his neck again, resting her forehead against his. "I'm flattered," she admitted. "It took me until the next day to realize that."

Della barely had time to button and reposition her dress before Sergeant Holcomb emerged from the mist and tapped on the steamed up driver's side window. She should have been mortified by the rivulets of moisture trailing down the inside of the windows, not to mention her disheveled clothing, but Perry's discomfort amused her too much. Holcomb walked away after announcing that the police had no further questions for either of them and thanking Della for her stenographic services, seemingly oblivious to the heated atmosphere within Perry's automobile. As Perry rolled up the window with a grimace, she broke into peals of delighted laughter.

Perry started the car and let out a mirthless "ha, ha," as he shifted in another futile effort to get comfortable.

"Are we going to continue discussing why almost two years is rushing things? How much more of an invitation do you require than me sitting in your lap with my skirt up around my waist?"

He took his hand off the steering wheel and reached out toward her. After hesitating for effect, she slid next to him and nestled her hand in his. He raised it to his lips and held it there.

"I'm going to tell you a story," he announced.

She rolled her eyes. "Please don't start it with 'there once was a lawyer from L.A.'"

"Well, there was, but he doesn't have anything to do with this particular story." He grinned, that infectious, boyish grin she had no defense against. She laughed. "Once upon a time, there was a lawyer who had a secretary. She was a good secretary, the best the lawyer had ever had. She was beautiful, brainy, adventurous, and humorous."

"I think I'm going to like this story," Della interjected.

Perry flashed a mock-serious look at her. "Tut, tut, don't interrupt. The lawyer and his secretary got along famously from the moment she started working for him, and very quickly the lawyer realized his feelings for the secretary were not very business-like."

Della's eyes were wide with feigned innocence. "I _**most definitely**_ like this story."

"Warning number two, Miss Street," Perry said sternly, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips, "If you can't be a good girl and listen quietly, there will be harsh consequences. Now, the secretary also had not very business-like feelings for the lawyer, and one night, just a few weeks after they began working together, those mutual not very business-like feelings escalated into a rather intimate event." Perry paused for effect and took his eyes from the road to gauge Della's reaction to the story thus far.

Her expression was still one of enthralled innocence. "Was said event repeated, or did the secretary become _persona non grata_ to the lawyer?"

"Three," Perry's voice was edged with an ominous growl in response to her question. "The event was indeed repeated. With regularity. However, due to that regularity, the practice began to suffer, and the lawyer bungled several cases that should have been decided in favor of his clients."

Della's forehead suddenly puckered in a frown, and she opened her mouth to say something, but closed it when Perry again took his eyes off the road and glared her into silence.

"After the bungled cases, the not very business-like feelings between the lawyer and the secretary became strained and uncomfortable. The event that had so drastically altered their working relationship began to dwindle in repetition, until it was no longer on the calendar."

"You could have warned me the story was a tragedy." Della offered a dramatic sniffle.

"Miss Street," Perry intoned gravely, "as punishment for egregiously disruptive commentary, tomorrow I expect you to be in the office no later than 8:30, despite the late hour at which you will be deposited at your apartment."

"Are you going to eventually reveal the point of this epic tragedy, or must I draw my own conclusions?"

Perry's forced sternness relaxed into a lopsided smile. "The point of the story, my dear, is that the lawyer rushed into the event without any thought how to maintain the spectacular working relationship he already had with the secretary."

Silence stretched between them as Perry navigated the big car through the quiet side streets, deliberately taking a wrong turn that would deposit them blocks from her building.

Finally, Della spoke. "Spectacular, huh?"

"Spectacular," he repeated firmly. "You're the best thing that's ever happened to me, Della. I never tire of being with you. You know me better than I know myself, and I believe I know you better than a man has ever known any woman." He made yet another turn that took them in the opposite direction of her apartment house.

"We can dispense with barbs about the mysteriousness of women," she commented drily. "But please continue telling me about how I'm the best thing that's ever happened to you."

"I'm doing this badly, huh?"

"Not badly at all. Just wordy."

"Marry me," he said abruptly.

* * *

><p>Following his unexpected pseudo proposal in the car, she directed him to stop taking wrong turns and drive them immediately to her apartment. As the elevator doors slid shut, Della flung herself at Perry and instigated a breathtakingly intense necking session. As he fumbled with the keys at the door of her apartment, she pressed herself against his side and captured his earlobe between her teeth, chuckling as he sucked in his breath and fought to lock his knees. Finally inside the door, Della made a beeline for the bathroom, leaving Perry to gather his wits and scrounge in the kitchen for ice, glasses, and a bottle of scotch. By the time she emerged from the bathroom, sans stockings, barefoot, face freshly scrubbed, the curls surrounding her face slightly damp, he had already imbibed in two generous shots straight from the bottle. He silently handed her a drink, and watched as she took a healthy gulp. Without make-up, she did not look old enough to toss back twelve-year old scotch with such gusto.<p>

"Well?" he asked.

"Well what? Oh, I suppose you expect a response to what you said in the car." She coyly turned her back on him and circled the couch, where she seated herself facing away from him and patted the cushion next to her. "Come sit down."

Perry remained in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the jamb. "I believe I'll stay right here and not be a pawn in your stall tactics." He did not like how she was reacting to his proposal. Except for in the elevator. Oh, and most definitely except for in the hallway.

She shifted on the couch so that the overstuffed arm supported her back, and gave him a look of exasperated annoyance. "I'm not stalling," she said evenly. "I really would prefer to say what I have to say with you in less of a defensive position." She drew her feet up under her rumpled skirt and wrapped her arms around her legs.

Pushing himself away from the jamb, he joined her on the couch, tossing several decorative pillows at her, which she batted to the floor with amused annoyance. He raised his glass of scotch and took a swallow. "All right, I'm sitting. Feel free to crush my hopes and dreams any time."

She scowled. "You are a perfect stinker."

"And you, my dear, are evading the issue. Will you or will you not marry me?"

She held out for another beat before answering. "No, I will not marry you."

Perry slowly set his drink on the coffee table and heaved himself to his feet with a tired sigh. "I suspected as much. Then I shall say goodnight, Miss Street."

Quick as a cat Della was on her knees, her hands reaching for Perry, grasping his arm. "No! Don't walk out on me, Perry Mason. I listened to your story, the least you can do is listen to me."

He looked down into pleading hazel eyes. Her skin was luminous in the pale light thrown by the table lamp he had switched on while she was hiding in the bathroom. His legs suddenly sagged as he sat back down on the couch and gathered her to him in a gentle hug. "I'm sorry, Della. I'm being unfair."

She pulled away from him and sat back in her previous position of feet drawn up and arms around her legs. "If we were married, could I still be your secretary?"

Perry didn't hesitate in answering with a quick shake of his head. "It wouldn't sit well with clients for a husband to boss around his wife."

"Then if we were married, you would definitely hire a new secretary?"

"Certainly I would. I need a secretary. You know that better than anyone."

She nodded a swift confirmation of his words. "I suppose you would buy me a nice house in an exclusive neighborhood and I could decorate it however I wanted?"

"From top to bottom," he affirmed. "And we'd buy you a new car so you could go wherever you wanted –"

"What if I wanted to be with you," she interrupted.

"You would be with me," he replied. "I'd be home every night – "

"No, you wouldn't," she interrupted again, vigorously shaking her head. "You wouldn't be home at all. You would be out working on cases with your new secretary, while I would be in that finely decorated house all by myself, waiting for you to come home, worrying about what kind of trouble you were stirring up. And wanting to be a party to that trouble, just like tonight."

She paused and gulped her drink. She needed to feel the burn of the amber liquid as it slid down her throat, to concentrate momentarily on something other than Perry's closeness and her overwhelming desire to melt into his arms and never come up for air.

"I've been having a swell time, Chief. In the beginning you scared me and I worried about you, but then I realized that it was your unorthodox methods and penchant for excitement that made you so effective. I know I'm contributing to a great purpose and I'm not prepared to give that up just yet."

"We could always be unconventional and continue to work together after we're married," he suggested.

She smiled at him with fond indulgence. Men could be so simple sometimes. "No, you were correct when you said it wouldn't sit well with clients. You have a habit of barking at me."

He looked stricken. "Della, I – honestly, I don't mean to bark at you."

Her laughter dispelled his consternation somewhat. "I know it's just your way of keeping things moving quickly in tense situations, but I must admit you've raised more than one set of eyebrows."

Feeling chastened and ashamed, Perry looked down to study the pattern in the carpet. "I never realized I treated you with anything but the utmost respect and professionalism."

Della laughed again. "Professionalism in our relationship flew out the window a long time ago, Chief." She took another healthy swallow from her drink. "But I'm counting on respect to get us through tonight."

"I have nothing but respect for you, Della. Surely you know that."

She leaned her chin on her drawn up knees and regarded him wistfully. "I know you do. I also know you trust me and that you like me."

What an understatement. "You are my favorite person in the world."

She smiled briefly. "Ditto, Chief."

"Then why the heck not, Della?"

She drained the last of her drink and set the empty glass on the coffee table. "I just told you why."

"No you didn't. You agreed that clients wouldn't take to a husband bossing his wife around, and some conjecture about being an abandoned housewife, but you didn't give me a specific reason."

"All right then, the reason is you aren't the marrying kind."

"I'm the one who asked you, remember?"

""Then _**I'm**_ not the marrying kind."

Perry studied her with exasperated intensity. "I've never known a more stubborn woman."

She leaned back against the overstuffed arm of the sofa with a smile. "My feet are cold."

Perry shifted his position on the couch so that her feet were under his leg, pulled the crocheted throw from the back of the couch and spread it across her drawn-up legs. "Better?"

She wriggled her toes, burrowing her feet further beneath his hip and nestled herself more comfortably against the arm of the couch. "Much better. They got wet at Fornier's." She didn't tell him that her shoes and stockings were spattered with blood and she had stuffed everything into the bathroom wastebasket.

Perry's hand closed over her ankle beneath the throw. "Are you sure you're okay about taking the confession?" He asked solicitously.

She nodded and let out a singing yawn. "I'm fine. It wasn't too bad. A couple of burly officers blocked my view, and they had him covered with a blanket. He knew it was over."

"Poor kid," he said, rubbing his thumb over her delicate ankle bone in a gentle caress.

"Really, Chief, I'm okay."

The hand that had been caressing her ankle so gently slowly moved up behind her knee as he leaned forward and brushed errant curls away from her forehead with the other hand. "Della, beautiful girl, I don't ever want you to be anything but who you are. If you want to keep working you could accept the job offer – "

"No," she cut him off. "You don't get it. I wouldn't be happy working with anyone but you. Please understand and don't be annoyed."

She closed her eyes again. Any moment she would lose her battle with exhaustion.

Perry tenderly stroked her cheek. "Go to sleep, baby. I'm not annoyed. My proposal is hereby rescinded until some future date when we can both think more clearly." He leaned forward to kiss her.

She returned his kiss with an emotional pureness that nearly stopped his heart. "Thank you for understanding," she whispered against his mouth. "And for not getting mushy."

"I won't say I understand, Della, but I respect that you have some definite notions regarding marriage, as well as about me. As for being mushy, I think you should give me more credit as a man who cares about you."

He couldn't be certain, but he suspected she fell asleep before he finished speaking.

He remained on the couch, sitting on her cold feet, listening to her gentle breathing, dreaming of the day he could tell her how much he loved her.

* * *

><p>Della awoke gradually with a smile, despite the slight disappointment of discovering herself alone on the couch. She sat up and swung her legs to the floor. The sun was rising, pushing weak rays of yellow through the sheer curtains at the windows. She shook her head and looked at the clock across the room. Plenty of time to make it to the office by 8:30.<p>

She lifted long slender arms above her head and executed a graceful stretch, scrunching bare toes in the thick pile of the area rug, her smile broadening as the events of the previous evening clarified in her sleepy mind. She stood, shook down the hopelessly wrinkled skirt of her dress, and headed toward the bathroom. Preoccupied with unbuttoning the small pearl buttons at the bodice, remembering the dexterity with which Perry had dispatched with them, she didn't notice that the door was closed before running smack into it. Hopping around on one foot cursing, she noticed a note in Perry's masculine script tacked to the door.

D –

Due to the fact you fell asleep literally mid-kiss, and didn't wake up when I sneezed loudly enough to frighten small children and wild animals, I've decided to commute the consequence of your insubordination to arrival at the office no later than 10:00. I've already called the service and left a message for Gertie to clear the decks until 10:30. Go back to sleep.

P

P.S.: I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mention my story in front of Harvey.

P.P.S: Don't worry. You didn't snore or drool.

She laughed and pulled the tack from the door, freeing the note, which she carefully folded in half. She should have known right away his story was about Harvey. In the two years she had worked for Perry, she had come to learn a great deal about his much-married law school buddy Harvey Sayers. The anti-Paul Drake, she called him.

She turned away from the bathroom and headed into the bedroom, where she placed the folded note in the top drawer of her dresser, tucked safely beneath lacey what-nots. She let her stale, wrinkled dress drop to the floor and was stepping out of her slip when she noticed that the bed had been neatly turned down and a wrapped peppermint was sitting squarely in the middle of her pillow, on top of another note in Perry's handwriting. A slow smile crept across her face as she popped the peppermint in her mouth and reached for the note.

D-

Wish I was there to feed you the mint personally.

See you at 10:00. It's going to be a heck of a swell day.

P

She couldn't stop smiling as she crawled between the cool sheets, and placed the note beneath her pillow. She lay curled on her side, eyes closed, savoring the peppermint, careful not to crunch it.

* * *

><p>Gertie, the well-padded receptionist, regarded Della with barely contained excitement. "Good morning, Miss Street," she said as Della pulled the door closed behind her.<p>

Della flashed Gertie a bright smile. "A bit formal this morning, aren't we, Gertie? Is someone waiting in my office?"

"Not some_**one**_." Her eyes literally sparkled with mischief.

Della stood at Gertie's elbow and waited expectantly for her to expound on her comment. Gertie merely maintained the look of the cat that ate the canary, and Della finally surrendered the stand-off. "Is the rearranged schedule on my desk? And the mail?"

Gertie nodded as two calls simultaneously lit the switchboard. She efficiently snapped a couple of keys and adopted her best operator voice to answer the incoming calls. Della regarded her with a slight frown for another moment before turning and slowly making her way to the door of her interior office.

Upon entering her office, Della understood immediately why Gertie was nearly jumping out of her skin. On her desk, beside the red leather daybook in which Perry's appointments and court dates were logged, was a cut crystal jar containing at least a pound of macadamia nuts, her favorite treat. Several lengths of white ribbon were wound around the jar lid and tied into an elaborate bow, each trailing tail threaded through crystal beads of deep emerald. An expensive creamy linen envelope was propped against the jar, her name written across it in perfect masculine printing.

She blinked several times to hold back tears that threatened to ruin her mascara and reached for the envelope. Inside was a folded sheet of the same extravagant linen, covered with more of the perfect lettering.

**TO: Miss Della Street**

**FROM: Mr. Perry Mason**

**SUBJECT: Anniversary Date**

**WHEN: Thursday Next, 8:00 p.m.**

**WHERE: Luigi's**

**AGENDA: Cocktails, Dinner, Dancing**

**ATTIRE: Formal**

**R.S.V.P. **

With all that had transpired in the last thirty six hours, how on earth did he manage to arrange for the exquisitely presented nuts, not to mention penning the invitation himself? She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, not caring that her mascara would be smeared. The vision of tough, gruff Perry Mason sitting down with a bottle of India ink and a calligraphy pen to hand-write an invitation to his secretary…well, it was the most thoughtful, flattering thing he had ever done.

It did not escape her attention that the subject of the invitation included the word "date". Good Lord, what did he mean by that? Was he referring to the occasion or the calendar? She really needed him to clarify that, given the events of the previous evening.

She always prided herself on not being one of those women who obsessed about every little thing men did or said. Up until this very moment she had taken her time with Perry in stride, enjoying the excitement of his profession, of the man himself, looking forward to each day she spent with him as it came. Last night – the steamy groping in the car, his story, his proposal, her declining of his proposal, her story – had last night changed everything?

Of course it had.

It was clear to her that she must steer that change in a direction acceptable to both her and Perry. She had feelings for him like no other man in her life, and she knew without a doubt he found her desirable and an enjoyable companion. Although he had blurted that proposal last night, Perry Mason was not the marrying kind. He lived life on the fly, in the moment, his attention to direction unwavering when it came to securing acquittal for his clients. He thought he wanted to marry her because she understood him, supported him, challenged him, and guarded him as much as possible from the mundane in his life. Her contribution to the practice was to free him to be the brilliant, often reckless, legal tightrope-walker he was. She was proud of his accomplishments, and proud of her contribution to his success.

She tucked her purse into the bottom drawer of her desk, gathered the mail Gertie had placed on the credenza, and stacked it on top of the day book along with Perry's invitation. She was smiling and humming as she skirted her desk and headed through the door marked PRIVATE.

Sleeping on the couch had left her with a slightly stiff back, and bending over the desk sorting mail was uncomfortable, so she seated herself in Perry's enormous executive chair and quickly sorted correspondence into what Perry referred to as the "trifecta of torture" - three neat piles of letters arranged in order of importance. When the last letter was opened and assigned to a pile, she reached her arms up over her head and arched her back in an attempt to soothe the nagging ache, losing herself in the luxury of the stretch, hoping she could manage to sit through the marathon dictation session looming before her without squirming.

Dinah Manning's case had developed directly on the heels of another physically draining and time consuming trial, and correspondence had taken a back seat for far too long. As his notoriety increased, Perry was becoming much in demand socially and on the guest speaker circuit, and the mail recently was laden with invitations from law schools as far away as Michigan, as well as from just about every woman's club ever chartered in the state of California. The latter invitations amused her to no end, and she teasingly cajoled him to accept these invitations occasionally so he wouldn't get a reputation as being standoffish. Invariably he returned with calling cards and scraps of paper with names and phone numbers stuffed into his suit coat pockets that she collected and kept in a file labeled "CONQUESTS".

"So this is what you do when I'm not around," Perry's voice boomed. "Sit in my chair and stretch like a lazy cat."

His voice originated behind her from the outer doorway to his private office. She remained seated, still reaching her arms toward the ceiling, facing away from him. "Only when my boss keeps me out all hours of the night without so much as a candy bar for dinner."

He advanced toward her, bent over the back of the chair, and whispered into her ear. "I left you a peppermint."

She brought her arms down from their stretch. "I'd forgotten that. I was too preoccupied by how nicely you warmed my feet."

"Had I known how much I could please you by simply sitting on your feet, I would have attempted it a long time ago. Did you know you curl your toes?"

"Yes. I've always curled my toes, ever since I was a baby."

"It's quite alluring," he told her. "Right up there with tight sweaters and short skirts." He circled the chair to lean casually against his desk. He had to put space between them or he couldn't be held responsible for the noises Gertie might overhear.

Her laugh was husky with a flirty abandon. "Here I thought it was my efficiency and willingness to go to jail that you found alluring."

"Those are certainly commendable attributes," he readily agreed. "But they don't hold a candle to that little blue sweater with the wooden buttons."

"Is this any kind of conversation for a professional office?" She asked tartly, raising an eyebrow at him reprovingly.

"If the opportunity presents itself," he began, and then broke off with a grin.

"You do realize you mixed categorical attributes."

"I beg your pardon?"

"There are physical attributes and then there are personal attributes...And you really couldn't care less, could you?" She stood and faced him, eyes sparkling with amusement.

He reached out, hooked a finger around the belt of her dress and tugged her to him. "At this moment all I care about is the attribute of being an expert kisser," he said.

"And which of us possesses that attribute?" She inquired, palms pressed against his chest, holding him slightly away from her.

"I see that last night did nothing to cure your ingrown brattiness. Did you find anything unusual on your desk?"

"As a matter of fact, I did." She reached behind him and picked up the handwritten invitation. "I've been invited to dinner at Luigi's, Thursday next." Luigi's was a small Italian restaurant with a miniscule dance floor, a jukebox, and the best food in the city.

He whistled. "That's a pretty swanky joint."

"The swankiest," she agreed with sparkling eyes. "It's my favorite supper club."

"Is it now. Don't people go on dates to places like that?" He slid past her to seat himself in his chair.

"I suppose they do. The invitation does contain the word "date"."

"Have you accepted the invitation?"

"Not yet. I really feel I must, since there was a beautiful gift attached to the invitation."

"Are you sure the invitation wasn't attached to the gift?"

"I hadn't thought of that," she admitted with an elaborate puckering of her forehead. "No, I'm certain the gift was attached to the invitation."

Perry was trying mightily not to grab her in a ferocious hug. "Does it matter which is which in regard to your answer?"

She bent and briefly pressed soft lips to his. "Not in the least," she whispered. "I am more than happy to accept the invitation." She kissed him again, longer, deeper. "And that is your thank you note for the macadamia nuts."

Before she could straighten he reached up and placed his hands on either side of her head. "You do realize the invitation is for an actual pick-you-up-at-your-apartment date. We aren't changing in the office and heading out from here."

She placed her right hand on his wrist, turned her head and kissed the palm of his hand gently. "I understand, Mr. Mason. The answer is still yes."


	2. Chapter 2

_Omigosh! I can't thank everyone enough for the kind words of encouragement. I am overwhelmed, thrilled, and humbled. I had fun writing the story and afer re-reading it decided on a whim to post it. _

_In reading part two you will realize that this is actually the second story I wrote during the dark days of unemployment. The first story is under a bit of reconstruction._

_Again, I can't express how much I appreciate the comments and I hope part two doesn't disappoint!_

Part Two

Perry Mason stood at Della Street's door, dressed in a brand-new dinner jacket and pleated dress shirt purchased specifically for marking the two-year anniversary of the day she walked into his life. Della maintained the real anniversary should be her first day working for him, but Perry insisted he would never be able to remember that date (it was the very next day). She was touched and a bit overwhelmed by his sentiment. Perry Mason was not a man who spoke his feelings aloud often, or showed the soft side she knew lay beneath his commanding, demanding persona. But in the past couple of weeks he had been unusually vocal about her place in his life, matter-of-fact in his desire for her, confident in displaying affection toward her. She matched his mood, exhilarated, yet slightly alarmed by the direction in which they were moving.

He had taken great care in planning this evening. Every move had to be executed with thought to how it would affect their working relationship, but still move them toward where he wanted to be, where he fervently hoped she wanted to be as well. At the office they worked in concert, nearly able to read each other's minds, their mutual trust and admiration for each other serving the practice and their clients well. After hours their easy camaraderie and forthright way of communicating with one another had led to pecks on the cheek on her doorstep following dinner out, and delicate embraces while dancing, quickly replaced by more ardent kisses and bolder embraces, both inside and outside of the office. They rarely spoke aloud about the transformation of their relationship, each accepting it for what it was from day-to-day, content to be together as much as they were.

He hesitated in ringing the doorbell, knowing what awaited him on the other side. In work clothes, Della was elegant and graceful, undeniably beautiful and confident in bearing. Della in formal wear was of a different world altogether, her beauty ethereal and unconscious. The sight of her bare shoulders and back could simultaneously stop his heart and make it pound painfully in his chest. And the perfume she wore for formal occasions! The sinfully expensive ounce she treated herself to as a gift once a year on her birthday, heavier than her everyday perfume, intoxicating, bewitching, fascinating, just like the woman herself. The first time he smelled it, when she accompanied him to the Bar Association Christmas dinner last year, he felt light-headed and strangled with raging lust. It took all his strength not to haul her from the dance floor and ravage her in the cloak room. He knew he wasn't the only man affected that evening by her scent, her elegant beauty, her conversational skills. Knowing he was the envy of nearly every man in attendance gave him a great sense of pride, and when she smiled at him, only him, he was humbled that such a woman appeared to want to be with him as much as he wanted to be with her. They attended five formal occasions that holiday season, including the annual gathering of friends hosted by one of his law school buddies. He couldn't wait for Christmas this year.

When Della flung open the door in answer to the bell he'd finally rung, he was holding his breath. If he did that, he felt the sight of her couldn't steal it and leave him faint. It worked for a moment, but then the reality of her, of what the night meant to him, to _**them**_, pushed the air from his bursting lungs and he simply stared at her, slack-jawed.

"Good Lord," he said finally.

She laughed. "I guess the dress was money well-spent," she said airily, stepping aside to allow him entrance into the apartment. She twirled before him slowly. "You like?"

"Good Lord," he repeated.

Her eyes were deeply amused as she regarded him critically. "You don't look so bad yourself, Mr. Mason." She placed her hand on his chest, patted the satin lapels of his jacket. "I see you visited the tailor."

"My tailor has nothing on your dressmaker," he said with fervent admiration.

She smiled up at him. "You are very gallant, considering I pulled the dress off the rack just yesterday."

"Good Lord," he said a third time, struck anew by the filmy shear fabric fashioned in a halter that exposed much of her back, and nearly as much of her front. The skirt fell in swirling folds from the tight halter, the fabric a shimmering white touched with an iridescence of silver. The dress whispered softly as she moved and carried her heady perfume to his eager nostrils. He glimpsed silver sandals on her impossibly arched feet, but found it difficult to avert his gaze from the simple pendant she wore on a thick rope chain around her neck. Nestled in the plunging V of the halter top, perfectly positioned to draw his attention there, a teardrop shaped crystal sparkled in the soft light. The dress and the pendant were understated and elegant, yet devastatingly provocative in their simplicity. On any other woman the dress would have been seen as a blatant display of skin, but on Della it was merely sublime.

She handed him a matching filmy wrap with a smile. "If we don't leave soon we'll be late for our reservation."

Wordlessly he held the scrap of sensuous material as she turned and settled herself against its softness. He slowly wrapped his arms around her and leaned down to whisper in her ear. "In case I didn't make myself clear, I think you are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

She turned quickly, gracefully, to take advantage of his bent posture and kissed him fleetingly on the lips. "You are such a nice man," she said softly. "The fact you are irresistibly handsome is a bonus."

Before he could pull her to him she twisted away with a small laugh. He sighed. "I guess we should get a move on. Luigi might give our table away if we're late." His eyes suddenly twinkled enigmatically.

"I haven't eaten all day," she admitted "so I can have as much garlic bread as I want."

"Should I call and alert Luigi he'd better put more dough in the oven?"

Her throaty chuckle quickened his pulse. "No, that won't be necessary. I'm forewarning you so you won't be surprised at my unladylike display of avarice with the bread basket."

In the elevator Della allowed Perry to pull her close and indulge in a thorough nibbling of her neck. He tasted the perfume behind her ears, inhaled it deeply into his lungs, let it permeate his pores, eyes closed in divine gratification. Her slender hands gripped the satin lapels of his dinner jacket, knees weakened by the sensations those lips sent coursing through her hunger-weakened body. When the elevator bumped to a stop and the doors opened, he drew his head back and met her eyes with a Cheshire cat grin. He took her hand and backed out of the elevator, pulling her with him, dazed and yearning.

Luigi had recently purchased and paved the empty lot next to his restaurant so that his patrons wouldn't have to park on the street, often blocks away. The move had increased his business to the point where it was nearly impossible to get a table without making a reservation days in advance. Luigi's was the first restaurant Perry had taken Della to mere weeks into her employment, and they had returned many times since, marveling at the amount of food his bevy of relatives put out on a typical week night, happy for the success of the genial owner.

But when Perry turned the corner onto Luigi's block, Della instantly noticed that the new parking lot was virtually empty, even though the restaurant was plainly alight with its signature candles. She threw an inquiring glance at Perry, who kept his eyes straight ahead as he piloted the big car into the nearly deserted lot and parked in the space nearest the door. He ignored her raised eyebrows, then her outright questioning, as he assisted her from the car and into the cozy atmosphere of the restaurant.

Luigi greeted them at the door with an enormous grin on his florid face.

"Mister Mason! Miss Street! You're finally here!" he cried effusively. "Luigi have table all ready." He beckoned them to follow him to a booth located nearly in the middle of the long, narrow restaurant. The very same booth they had sat in the first time they had dined together. There were only three occupied tables in the restaurant, and necks craned to see the couple being seated at the elaborately set table.

Instead of the usual red and white checked table cloth, the table was covered with fine white linen. Places were set with crystal glasses, highly polished silverware, and linen napkins in sterling rings. In a cut glass crystal vase were three orange roses held together with lengths of white ribbon threaded through crystal beads of a deep flame color.

Della took in the magnificantly set table, the nearly empty restaurant, the exquisite roses, and turned speechlessly toward Perry, discovered him staring intently at her, his blue eyes glittering in the candlelight.

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed the slender fingers gently. "I wanted you as much to myself as possible tonight," he interrupted softly. "No prying eyes, no reporters with cameras, just you and I enjoying our dinner like the first time I brought you here." He continued to hold her hand as she dazedly seated herself and didn't let go until Luigi cleared his throat with purpose. Perry winked at her, moved to the other side of the table and slid into the booth.

"Luigi," he said with great good humor, "send Gianni over to open the champagne."

"Champagne!" Della exclaimed, sitting back against the back booth cushion weakly as Luigi's nephew Gianni magically materialized with a silver champagne bucket into which had been placed a bottle of Cristal. She fingered the beribboned roses in shocked wonderment, dazed by what Perry had arranged for their evening. Her dress felt suddenly too tight as her heart swelled with feeling for the man seated across from her. His attention to detail in creating a mood for their celebration was astounding. Dinner at Luigi's, the roses, the champagne, the plates of calamari and house salads Gianni served together with a delightful flourish, Perry's declaration that he wanted her to himself.

He wanted her to himself. He wanted her. Good grief, was all this was a seduction? A well thought out, deliberate seduction?

If it was, it was working.

True to her earlier statement, Della consumed more than her share of the fragrant, piping hot garlic bread that was Luigi's claim to fame before Gianni arrived with a platter of eggplant _parmigiana_ and a casserole dish of baked spaghetti dripping with crusty mozzarella cheese, the very same meal he had ordered the first time he had brought her to Luigi's. They didn't talk much while they ate, but they didn't need to. Slow smiles, eyes caught and held for a moment, and the occasional gentle touch said everything that was necessary.

When the bread basket was empty, the champagne bottle drained and turned upside down in the silver bucket, the dinner plates cleared, and footed glass cups of coffee laced with cognac placed in front of them, Perry reached across the table and stroked Della's hand gently.

"Thank you," he said simply, his eyes downcast, intent on watching his fingers stroke hers.

Her face registered shocked surprise. "Thank _**me**_? My goodness, Chief, I've done nothing tonight but enjoy the ride."

He continued to stroke her fingers. "I thank you for answering my ridiculous, desperate advertisement in the paper, for showing up to the interview, for accepting the job and staying despite my often despicable behavior." He paused to take a deep breath. "I thank you for supporting me with unwavering loyalty and trust. But most of all I thank you for being a partner, the perfect companion, a true friend. I'm a better man for having you in my life, and I want you to know how much I appreciate all that you are."

Perilously close to tears, Della couldn't speak for fear of every word emerging a choked sob.

"That story I told about Harvey and his secretary … I broke a confidence. But I wanted you to know how much what we have means to me. I can't imagine working with anyone other than you. I also can't imagine my life outside of work without you. To this day Harvey regrets what happened." He smiled ruefully. "He's married many women trying to recapture what he had."

He looked up at her, saw for the first time the glistening tears in her beautiful eyes, the depth of her own feelings shining openly on her incredible face.

"Please don't cry, baby," he told her quietly. "I want you to always be happy, to be your own person, exactly as you are."

Seeing her cry pierced him through. He had made women cry more times than he'd like to admit, usually when he couldn't give even a small piece of himself to them. He wanted Della to have everything of him. In her he'd found what was missing in him, what would make him happy for a lifetime. "Can we do this, Della? Can we work together and have evenings like this without messing up everything?"

"Perry." His name, uttered for the first time in addressing him, her voice low and throaty, a soft purr. It was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard. "We can."

With those two words, Della conveyed what had taken him an emotionally raw monologue to express. Her compact, practical approach to life summed up the depth of her feelings and told him everything he wanted to know. His voice, the instrument he used so effectively to perform his craft, failed him. By simply saying his name she confirmed everything he had hoped for when planning this evening. His fingers tightened around hers as their eyes met across the table in silent confirmation of what had just been decided.

Della excused herself to attempt a repair of the damage to her make-up, leaving Perry alone with a cigarette and the cognac-laced coffee. Luigi appeared at his elbow almost instantly after she vanished into the powder room. He jumped.

"'_Scuse_, Mister Mason," Luigi said apologetically. "Every thing okay tonight?"

Perry smiled. "Everything is positively okay, Luigi."

"Please forgive an old man like Luigi, Mister Mason, but Miss Street, Luigi knew she was the one the first time he saw her."

Perry regarded Luigi thoughtfully for several seconds. "I did too, Luigi," he admitted.

"Tonight you pop the question, no?"

Perry smiled again. "No, Luigi, not tonight. I'll tell you what, though. Next time I do pop the question, I'll make sure it's here."

Luigi bowed and moved away from the table silently. He was back in the kitchen before it registered with him that Mr. Mason had said "next time" in regard to popping the question.

Perry stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray, reached into the side pocket of his dinner jacket and pulled out a long, thin velvet jewelry box tied with the same white ribbon as the roses, the crystal beads a turquoise blue seen only in tropical seas. When Della returned from the powder room, she found the box placed squarely in the middle of the table in stark contrast to the pristine linen. She stopped dead in her tracks, eyes swiftly shifting to those of Perry Mason.

"What's this?" She demanded.

He shrugged. "You'll have to open it to find out."

She slowly slid into the booth and reached for the box. "This is ridiculous, you know," she told him. "Dinner would have sufficed. Champagne, roses, a gift …"

"Let me have my fun, Della," he interrupted with gentle admonition. "You deserve it and more for putting up with me for two whole years."

She held the jewelry box in her hands, fingering the familiar ribbon decoration. How on earth did he manage to get the same ribbon on the macadamia nuts, the roses, and now the jewelry box? Surely he didn't do it himself … she smiled at the private thought.

"That's my girl," he said, misinterpreting her smile. "Open it."

She carefully slipped the ribbon from the box and lifted the hinged lid. Inside laid a gold charm bracelet, a thick link chain with one large dangling circular charm. Within the circle was a sculpted Siamese cat. She looked up at him in astonished delight.

"I've noticed women are wearing bracelets like that nowadays," he explained. "When I saw the cat charm on this one, I knew you had to have it. You remind me of a cat, you know. Mercurial, graceful, independent."

Fresh tears threatened to destroy the recent repair job on her make-up. She had always known a hidden gentleness existed beneath his hard shell, but the sentimentality with which he held thoughts of her was something she hadn't expected. Most of what had transpired tonight she hadn't expected.

"Thank you. It's lovely." She couldn't say anything else for fear of being overtaken by sobs of happiness. No man had ever gone to such lengths to please her. She felt unworthy, unsure of what she had done to be on the receiving end of his generosity, of the deep emotion she felt hovering in the air around them.

He abruptly slid from the booth and came to stand before her. Reaching across her, he snapped shut the lid of the jewelry case and took both her hands in his. "Time to dance," he announced, pulling her from the seat and piloting her to the back of the restaurant where Luigi had laid a wooden dance floor maybe twelve feet by twelve feet – just enough room for a few couples to stand and sway. She hadn't noticed when, but the other diners had exited and the jukebox had been turned on. The clarinet lead of Glenn Miller's orchestra filled the candlelit atmosphere. She moved into Perry's arms with familiar ease, felt the hard length of him against her softness, followed his expert lead with smooth grace, anticipated the steps, loving how he held her gently but firmly, her head tucked protectively beneath his chin.

He marveled at how small and fragile her hand looked nestled in his. Elegant hands, capable hands, soft hands that touched him with gentle honesty. Her slender, willowy body fit against his much larger physique perfectly. Holding her calmed him and thrilled him. There had been physical attraction and excitement with other women, conversation and companionship, but nothing he'd experienced compared to the sense of completeness he felt with Della. He brushed his lips over the top of her hair and drew her closer.

The song changed to one he had specifically requested Luigi include in an automatic play mode, a song he knew was one of Della's favorites. It was his intention to show her how well he knew her, how much she meant to him, how they had to find a way to maintain their professional life while exploring their personal feelings as much as possible. Beginning tonight. He gently caressed the smooth, warm skin of her exposed back, felt her shiver in response to his touch.

Her hand clenched the lapel of his dinner jacket as she turned her head to lay her ear against his chest. Then she suddenly straightened her arm slightly and looked up at him, her eyes aglow in the candlelight. "Do you think Luigi would be offended if we left right now?"

They hurried back to the table to gather their things, and as Perry draped the filmy material around her shoulders he again took the opportunity to envelope Della in a brief embrace. "I think you should wear nothing but wraps like this from now on," he declared as he placed his hand at the small of her back and escorted her out of the restaurant.

"I'll remember that," she promised. "Shouldn't we tell Luigi we're leaving?"

Perry grinned. "No need. He's been watching us the entire time from the kitchen."

* * *

><p>The first reason they drove to Perry's apartment was because of its closer proximity to Luigi's than Della's apartment. The second reason was because Della couldn't keep her hands to herself. And the third reason was because Perry couldn't keep his eyes on the road for kissing Della. They would have been endangering innocent lives by continuing on to Della's apartment when his was so much more conveniently located.<p>

Della was completely uninhibited in the elevator, molding herself against Perry and initiating long, slow, deep kisses that left them both gasping for air by the time the elevator deposited them at his floor. His apartment was at the end of the hallway, the furthest unit from the elevator. That hallway had never stretched so endlessly in front of Perry Mason.

Once inside the apartment, he pulled Della close, lifted her against the closed door, and delved deeply into her luscious mouth, loving the taste of garlic mingled with champagne, coffee, and cognac. He was mindless with need, with desire denied for two years. She was equally as needy, her hands clutching him to her, taking everything from him and offering everything to him.

She relieved him of his dinner jacket and bowtie, her movements swift and sure. When she became frustrated with the less cooperative barrier presented by his pleated dress shirt and onyx studs flew around the room with metallic pings, his wits returned and he backed away from the door. "Della," he said thickly, "it can't be this way."

He carried her to the long, low modern couch, her legs still wrapped around his waist, the filmy skirt of her dress held scrunched in his hands so he wouldn't become tangled in its folds. "Disengage," he instructed, and she released her hold. The couch was so low that standing on it brought her to almost exactly his height. He put his hands on her hips and kissed her gently.

"Why do you keep doing this?" she demanded in utter frustration when he ended the kiss and wrapped her in his arms.

"I keep doing this, young lady, because there is a lot we haven't discussed yet."

"Then let's discuss it right now and get on with the fun part," she suggested, her voice still cloaked with frustration.

He chuckled. "I'm afraid it doesn't work like that, my dear."

"Would it work like that if I said I've never wanted a man as much as I want you?"

"Tempting, but no. Believe me, I want you, too." He hugged her tighter, and then let his arms hang loosely around her hips. "I've never been one to deny myself, but I've learned hard lessons over the years and this is too important to rush into."

"Sometimes your moral streak ticks me off," she said a mite crossly. "I'm no inexperienced babe, you know."

"Actually, I don't know, and that is supportive evidence of my argument."

Since they were the same height she didn't have to tilt her head to meet his eyes. "Surely you must have assumed…"

"Della, you know I try not to make assumptions," he chided. "Assuming gets you nowhere. I deal in reality and logical theory."

Her cheeks flushed a becoming pink. "I hope I didn't just destroy any logical theory you may have formed about me."

His laughter was deep and genuine. "No assumptions, and no logical theories about you, baby. I'm no saint, Della. Someday you'll know all my secrets and I'll know all of yours. Until that day, I think some boundaries need to be established."

As if formally challenged, Della pressed herself close to him. "Can this be within the boundaries?"

"Yes." He agreed and tightened his arms around her once again.

She nibbled at his ear, teeth pulling at his earlobe, her breath warm and moist against his skin. "How about this?"

"Definitely." He didn't know whether to grin or moan. His knees wobbled.

She slid her hand underneath his dress shirt, over the hard contours of his t-shirt covered chest and planted a smacking kiss at the hollow of his collarbone. "And this?"

"Maybe."

A strangled gasp escaped him as her hand brushed across one sensitized nipple and her soft lips grazed his jawbone. "I insist that this be within the boundaries."

"I'll have to examine it more closely before rendering a decision." He turned his head and captured her wandering mouth with his.

She laughed against his lips, wriggled free from his arms and jumped lightly from the couch, her gown swirling about her legs and dragging on the floor because her sandals had fallen off at some point. "Why is all your furniture so low to the ground?"

Just as she had grown accustomed to his habit of answering questions with questions, so had he become accustomed to her sudden changes of focus. And even though her departure from his embrace had left him woozy, he was able to reply with what he hoped was some form of intelligence. "So I won't fall very far when I've had too much to drink."

"It's all angles and sharp edges in here. Whatever possessed you to buy all this uncomfortable trendy stuff?"

Tonight was most definitely not the night to tell her who had decorated his apartment.

"You need something to soften the edges," Della continued without waiting for an answer from him, their conversation about physical boundaries seemingly forgotten now that her thoughts were occupied with his furniture. He marveled at the leaps her mind took.

"I have you to soften the edges," he pointed out.

She flashed him a brilliant smile. "You certainly do." She wandered toward the stone fireplace to study the large painting hanging above it. "Too bad you don't know what to do with me."

"I have ideas," he informed her. "But there is a lady present."

She laughed again and began to circle the perimeter of the room, inspecting the furnishings as if never having seen them before. Her dress floated behind her as she strolled with an easy, natural grace. "Do you have any booze in this joint? I didn't finish my coffee and cognac."

"If you will sit on the couch like a good girl, I will see what I have in the kitchen."

"Afraid I might break something?"

"No. Afraid you might hurt yourself on one of the sharp edges."

She abandoned her inspection of the nonsensical, avant-garde objects de 'art in the imposing dark wood wall unit that spanned the far wall, and floated back to where he still stood in front of the couch. "For the promise of booze, I'll remain rooted to this spot," she promised.

When Perry returned from the kitchen with snifters of warmed cognac, Della was seated on the couch, legs drawn up to her side, the filmy material of her dress spilling onto the floor. She eagerly reached for a snifter as he seated himself next to her. She raised her glass and one eyebrow.

"To crime?"

"Not tonight. Tonight we toast to two marvelous years, and for the promise of what the next year with bring." He touched the rim of her glass with his.

She took a sip and sighed. "Just think how much promise the coming year would have without any blasted boundaries."

His smile was patient and indulgent. "Good things come to those who wait."

She studied him over the rim of her snifter. "When did you become such a paragon of patience?"

"Just another of your virtues that has rubbed off on me."

"Remind me to keep all my virtues to myself from now on," she grumbled, and drained her cognac. She held out the snifter. "More."

He dutifully left her on the couch and disappeared into the kitchen to rewarm and refill the snifter. When he returned this time, he found she had drained his snifter and was now sitting cross-legged on the couch, the skirt of her dress fanned out around her.

"Looks like we share this one," he said in a slightly reproving tone.

"Look again. I'm not sharing."

He carefully moved her skirt so that he could resume his place next to her on the couch. "Peevishness does not become you, Miss Street." He sipped from the snifter and passed it to her. When she would have greedily drained it, he removed it from her grasp. "What are you trying to prove?"

"I'm not trying to prove anything. I'm trying to forget. You've rejected me, Perry. _**Twice**_."

Perry sighed from the souls of his feet and set the snifter on the coffee table. Her posture was stiff, arms crossed. He had difficulty pulling her into his lap, but she finally relaxed and allowed him to cradle her against him. "Della, at dinner you said you wanted a relationship outside the office, but you're as prickly as a cactus right now."

She molded herself against his chest. "I – I thought… we were… I hoped…" she stammered, her voice not much more than a whisper, her face suddenly flushed.

He hugged her to him tightly. "I want you too, baby," he said gently. "But I can't take the chance of losing you without knowing where we're going and how we're going to get there."

"I say we go into the bedroom. We can get there by walking."

He stared at her in mild shock. "No more alcohol for you, young lady."

"Alcohol has nothing to do with it, Perry." She struggled to a kneeling position in his lap, clapped her hands on either side of his head and lowered her lips to his.

He resisted at first, every fiber of his being telling him not to give in to her will, but she was so soft, and smelled so good, and he had wanted her for so long. His hands slowly crept up to caress the enticing bare skin of her back, and he moaned as she continued her assault on his surrendering mouth. Graceful, elegant Della was in his arms, anything but ladylike, her intentions plain, her body insistent. He didn't have the strength to deny what she wanted, what he wanted, what he needed. Whose idea was it anyway to establish boundaries?

Her hands found their way inside the shirt she had so wantonly ripped open earlier and pulled the tails free from his trousers, as her mouth left his to trail down the side of his neck. He chuckled softly as her hands roamed over his t-shirt covered chest.

"Della. Baby, before you rip my t-shirt too, let's get off the couch." He stood, holding her effortlessly in his arms as she slid along the length of his body to land softly on small feet. He took her hand, and slowly backed away from the couch toward the door of his bedroom. She followed silently, ethereal in her flowing white dress, her eyes locked on his with unconcealed desire.

Standing next to Perry's enormous bed, Della looked small and fragile. He was almost afraid to touch her. His hand tentatively reached out to caress her cheek. "I've never seen anything as lovely as you," he said, and kissed her before she could come back with the smart comment he knew for certain was bubbling up inside her.

He helped her take off his ruined dress shirt, ripping it even more when the cuffs caught at his wrists, his mouth never breaking contact with hers. They separated long enough to pull his t-shirt over his head, but once that was dispatched to the floor he pulled her to his bare chest and nearly bent her backward in a kiss so filled with lusty emotion she could do nothing but let him lead her to where she longed to be.

She felt his hands move up her back to the clasp of the halter bodice at the nape of her neck but he was unable to undo the hooks, his hands suddenly still. He tore his mouth from hers and forced her to look up at him.

"I love you, Della" he said in a quiet, firm voice.

Della went limp in his arms and he shifted her closer to him. "Perry, you don't have to – "

"I love you," he said a bit louder, a bit more firmly. "And I love hearing you say my name."

She didn't know if the cognac was making her weak and shaky, or if what she had dreamed about him saying, what she had been scared about him saying, was the cause, but her entire body began to tremble. His strong arms tightened. "Oh my, Perry," she breathed. "I love you."

The halter hooks were undone, the side zipper yanked down, and suddenly the dress was puddled at her feet like gossamer. He moaned audibly at the sight of her before him in nothing but stockings and a scrap of lace panty, the teardrop crystal resting between perfect breasts he could never in his life have imagined. Unaware of her beauty, of the sensuality of her unselfconscious elegance and how he was rendered speechless, Della reached for his belt buckle and remanded his trousers to the pile of clothing surrounding them.

Perry walked Della two steps backward to the bed, pulled down the covers and lifted her to the mattress, laying her back gently and reclining next to her, marveling at her slender womanliness. As the last few pieces of their clothing were removed and discarded with soft whispers and sighs of discovery, Perry pulled her to him in their first intimate embrace, flushed sensitized skin touching as never before. Sighs turned to gasps and it was undeniable to both that what was happening between them was the most natural, true experience they had ever shared, or would ever share, with anyone.

They took their time exploring each other, seeking out what pleasured them individually and mutually. Perry delighted in her flat belly and sweetly puckered belly button, and Della was equally delighted by what his tongue could do to it. She quickly learned she could make him moan by nibbling behind his left ear, and he discovered that he could make her shiver uncontrollably by simply running his hand up her spine. When she grew impatient, her fingers buried themselves in his thick, wavy hair, urging his mouth in the direction of her desire.

He snickered softly against her belly, but instead of yielding to her, he propped himself up on his elbow to gaze at her. She was utterly, achingly beautiful, her skin delicate and creamy, flushed becomingly pink with desire. "When did you become this beautiful?" he asked, idly moving a finger up her tummy, between perfect breasts, and across her exquisite collar bone.

"The moment you told me you loved me," she answered with a contented smile.

He stared at her with disbelief. She really had no idea how lovely she was. "I've never in my life seen anything as beautiful as you."

She brought her hands up to lay flat against his chest, loving the feel of the silken hair sprinkled across its broad expanse. He was so much larger than her, undeniably masculine, strong and muscular, but underlying his magnificent physique was an attentive gentleness that made her tremble. "I'm all arms and legs," she said dismissively. Her hands were moving, exploring the broad contours of his torso.

The long fingers of his hand moved from her collar bone to her hip, where they splayed over the firm roundness of her bottom. "I don't think you've looked in a mirror recently, my darling." His breathing was becoming ragged as her gentle touch sent electrical shocks across nerve endings exposed by desire.

He settled himself in the cradle of her hips, nearly overcome by the reality of her beneath him. Their kisses became urgent, fiery, deeply demanding, their hands insatiably roaming, tickling, arousing, coherent whispers dissolving into gasps of almost agonized pleasure. Then they were one in an ancient dance reborn in their passion, need and longing assuaged by delirious pleasure.

* * *

><p>Perry was exhausted.<p>

Della had revealed herself to be an insatiable, enthusiastic lover, adventurous and vocal about what pleased her, and he was determined to please her as much as possible. Toward dawn, after a spate of talkative restlessness, she had dropped into a deep sleep, which afforded him the pleasure of simply watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest, to marvel at the glorious curve of her lips, to fervently thank God for bringing her to him and for allowing his foolish resolve to falter in the face of his need for her.

Through his exhaustion he could sense a difference in the world. He couldn't put his finger on it, but it plastered a constant silly smile on his face. He had experienced his share of mornings after, running the gamut from regrettable to pleasantly sated, but he had never awakened feeling this giddy. He couldn't define his emotional state, and it was consuming his thoughts at the moment.

"What's with the courtroom frown?"

He started at her voice, even though it sounded so natural in his bedroom. "Was I frowning? I'm sorry, darling. There is absolutely no reason for it." He brushed his fingers across her cheekbone gently. "You look nice all tousled from sleep."

"Among other activities," she matter-of-factly reminded him.

"Among other activities," he conceded with a chuckle.

She lifted herself from the mattress and climbed onto his chest, one leg drawn up and thrown over his, head tucked beneath his chin, her right arm circling his torso. She had assumed this position three times during the night, and he found himself quite content with it. "This is the best way to listen to your heart," she explained.

He didn't know if he was up to the task as his pulse quickened with heady desire. "What would you like to do today? It is after all almost as special a day as yesterday."

"You have three client appointments this morning and a meeting with Judge Atherton at two," she said with a yawn.

"No I don't. I called and rescheduled them myself. I also gave the entire staff the day off. We have the whole day to ourselves. "

She raised her head and regarded him suspiciously. "For all your protestations about discussions and boundaries, you planned for us to be right where we are, didn't you?"

"Not exactly. I had planned to be at your place, where it wouldn't be so noticeable upon exiting that I had spent the night. If you hadn't been so handsy in the car…" he trailed off with a grin.

Her forehead puckered. "You mean if you had been able to keep your eyes on the road. We do seem to have a problem. I will be quite a spectacle in that dress in broad daylight."

"Considering you were quite a spectacle in that dress after dark, I agree we do have a problem. However, we'll figure out something. You haven't answered. What would you like to do today?"

"It's been so long since I've had a day off, I'm not sure what one does aside from eat and sleep. Breakfast would be a good place to start."

"You and your appetite." He felt a twinge of guilt. They had hopped from case to case in the past several months, with barely time between to catch their breaths. "Breakfast it is, my beauty. Winifred Laxter gave me her secret waffle recipe and I've made improvements. Prepare to be dazzled."

He was idly petting her back, not unaware of the tremors overtaking her body when she suddenly slithered off his chest and scrunched herself in his armpit, head pillowed on his shoulder. "You've already dazzled me, but if you don't stop that, we'll be having waffles for dinner."

"If that's what you want, that's what you'll have," he declared. "It's your day."

"No, I want steak for dinner, with baked potatoes and asparagus. I want waffles for breakfast. For lunch I want ham sandwiches with Swiss cheese and pickles on rye bread. I want to lie around all day while you to cook for me. But most of all, I want _**you**_."

He rolled her on her back and slid one leg between hers, leaving no doubt that he wanted her too. She laughed and pushed back at him, until he was on his back and she was straddling him. She placed the palms of her hands flat on his chest and slid them forward as she leaned toward him. "I've got this," she whispered.

* * *

><p>It was nearly 8:00 when Perry carefully slid from Della's relaxed embrace, pulled on his boxers and t-shirt and headed for the bathroom to brush his teeth and splash water on his face. He was forming a plan for the day that would build on Della's perfect day, and was smiling smugly to himself when she crept up behind him and slid her arms around his waist. She was completely nude, and completely comfortable with it. He, on the other hand, felt stirrings at odds with his physical capabilities.<p>

"Now that's more like it," she told him. "A smile instead of a frown."

"Jeez, Della! I'm going to put a bell around your neck."

"Do you have an extra toothbrush? Luigi's reliance on garlic and oregano has left a rather piquant taste in my mouth."

"You taste divine," Perry claimed, dropping a quick kiss on her lips.

"As do you, but I think it's about time Luigi's _parmigiana _became a fond memory and not a constant companion."

Perry laughed and reached to open the medicine cabinet for a brand-new toothbrush and handed it to her.

"You must have been a Boy Scout," she commented.

"As a matter of fact, I was. Always prepared."

"I don't know if I like that or not."

He placed a finger beneath her chin and locked his deeply blue eyes on her capricious hazel eyes. He loved that he never knew exactly what color her eyes would be from moment from moment. "It's been in the cabinet a long time," he said softly.

She smiled brilliantly and nudged him away from the sink. "I would like to maintain a modicum of mystery about myself," she began, "so I would appreciate it if you would scram so I can make myself presentable for those magnificent waffles."

He patted her bare bottom lightly. "If you show up for breakfast looking like this, then we definitely will be having waffles for dinner. Put on one of my shirts before you wander into the kitchen."

"I said I was going to lay on the couch while you cooked. What makes you think I'll wander into the kitchen?" She spat toothpaste into the sink. Even the act of spitting toothpaste was elegant when performed by Della.

"Because of your innate curiosity about everything. You're also going to hang up that heavenly dress while I try to find the expensive studs you so thoughtlessly scattered around the living room."

"I object to the word thoughtlessly, Mr. Mason," she said with affronted dignity. "I gave the situation a split second of deep thought before deciding to rip open your beautiful new shirt."

He threw back his head and laughed. "My darling I told you we would have fun together, and I must say I've had the time of my life these past two years. Especially last night."

She flung herself into his arms, toothbrush still clutched in her hand. "I love you," she said fiercely, a catch in her throaty voice. "No man has ever made me feel the way you do."

He clutched her slender, naked form to him. "I love you more, baby," he whispered. "You have no idea how much I need you." A quick kiss to her forehead, and he was gone from the bathroom, leaving her unsteady on her feet, toothpaste dripping down her hand.

She snuck up behind him again as he was cracking eggs into a mixing bowl and for penance was tasked with mixing the secret waffle batter until there were absolutely no lumps. The shirt she had pulled from his closet looked better on her than on him, but he was a bit disconcerted by her choice. It had been a gift he never wore. How she had settled upon that particular shirt was a horrible irony he tried to push from his thoughts.

He had set the table while she washed up and dressed, so when the waffles were pulled from the iron, he shooed her back into the area of the living room where a stark square table and spindly upright chairs were positioned. The cut crystal vase of orange roses, rescued from the hallway where he had placed them when digging for his keys last night, were prominently displayed in the center of the small dining table.

She was ecstatic to see the roses. "I thought someone would have taken them!" she exclaimed, fingering the delicate petals that were beginning to open. Now one stem could join the lavender rose in her dictionary, and the white ribbon could be tucked into her lacy what-not drawer with the other ribbons.

"Why orange roses?"

Perry looked up from the plates of waffles upon which he was slapping liberal pats of butter. "You do know that different colors of roses have different meanings."

"I know the meanings of red and white roses." She seated herself in one of the insignificant chairs and squirmed to get comfortable. She couldn't for the life of her imagine how Perry could sit on one of these chairs without smashing it to bits.

"The meaning of the orange rose is desire and fascination. I desire you and am fascinated by you."

"How do you know so much about roses?"

He chuckled. "I asked the florist."

"The roses you gave me on our first anniversary were lavender. What does lavender mean?"

His voice was subdued when he answered. "Lavender means enchantment and enthrallment. It also represents love at first sight." He poured syrup over the waffles and held the plate out to her.

She reached for the plate of waffles he proffered. He saw that she had put on the Siamese cat charm bracelet. "You did not," she claimed.

"I most certainly did."

"You're not being the least bit truthful." She took a bite of waffle and nearly expired from its perfection.

"I only speak the truth," he maintained. She shot him a skeptical glance. "Well, I speak the truth to you," he amended.

"Since you did not mislead me in regard to the waffles, I am inclined to believe that you fell in love with me at first sight," she conceded. Finished with one waffle, she started in on the second.

"When did you know?" He tried to sound nonchalant, his need to know sudden and piercing.

She pursed her lips, a bite of waffle held suspended in midair at the end of her fork. "I think it was the day you kissed me in front of Mrs. Belter and refused to wipe off my lipstick."

"I had to kiss you. I was afraid you were going to cry," he said with a bit defensively, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

"Dope. It wasn't the kiss. It was the fact you didn't wipe off my lipstick that made me fall in love with you. Mrs. Belter was furious."

He dismissed Eva Belter with a wave of his hand. "She was nothing but a pain in the neck."

Della shoveled the last of her waffle into her mouth and sat back in satisfied gluttony. "A very profitable pain in the neck," she affirmed.

He treated her to his trademark boyish grin. "Wasn't she. We need more clients like her."

"We do _**not,**_" Della proclaimed emphatically.

He laughed heartily. "Just the thought of her still rankles you, huh? I must admit you have an exceptional talent for judging character."

"And yet I still fell in love with the likes of you." She reached across the table, pulled his plate toward her and speared another bite of waffle with her fork.

"I guess you're allowed a lapse in judgment occasionally," he agreed easily, and pushed his plate even closer to her. "And I will be forever grateful for that lapse, because I love you, my beautiful girl."

Her shining eyes met his across the little table. He knew his responding grin was probably adolescently goofy, but she was blessedly sassy and composed even after a mostly sleepless night spent screaming his name in ecstasy, already wearing the mantle of their newfound intimacy with the matter-of-fact directness he so admired in her. He thought he might burst into song. No woman had ever made him feel this way. He wanted to spend his entire life loving her, making her happy, seeing her smile, hearing his name on her lips, screamed or otherwise.

"May I be mushy for a moment?" She asked quietly, interrupting his meandering thoughts.

"You know you can say anything to me, Della." He saw her valiantly battle tears that threatened to spill from her brilliant eyes, identified the slight tremor in her voice.

"I know I'm not the first woman you've ever said that to," she whispered, not trusting her voice at a normal volume. "But I want more than anything to be the last."

Perry was kneeling in front of her, holding her tightly in his arms, before the spindly chair hit the ground from the force of his exit. "I will love you forever, Della," he vowed with fierce intensity. "You are all I've ever wanted." She was also more than he thought he could ever have, but in a wonderful twist of fate, she loved him too. "Next Friday we'll close the office again and have a three-day weekend. I want to take you to Shasta Lake where we can be completely alone."

"What's in Shasta Lake?" She relaxed against his broad chest as he gently petted her back.

"A cabin."

"Who's cabin?"

"It belongs to Harvey, but he hardly ever goes there. He's hiding it from his ex-wives."

"I don't know if I want to get involved in that mess," she said warily.

"There's no mess. The cabin is in a name his wives couldn't possibly think of."

"You lawyers and your legal maneuvers. I hope no one is being denied what they deserve."

"Harvey has owned that cabin since college. His father built it and passed away shortly after it was completed. It has no relevance in a divorce settlement."

"In other words, you and your buddies don't want to give up your party house."

"It's not a party house. We go there to hunt, fish, and play cards. That's all."

"Exactly how many of you use this cabin?" She couldn't believe he had never told her about Harvey's cabin. She remembered his hunting trip vacation last fall and his story about an abysmal failure at making gravy.

"Just the usual suspects. You met them at the reunion Christmas party last year."

"Good Lord, you actually go hunting with those clowns?" She exclaimed in alarm.

"I must admit that not a lot of hunting takes place. We do fish a bit. But usually we just eat and play cards."

"Well, I'm relieved about that. I won't worry as much when you go this fall."

"Believe it or not, we've suffered more card playing injuries than from hunting or fishing." He kissed her sweetly, stood and began gathering plates and silverware from the table.

"How on earth do you injure yourself playing cards? Paper cuts?"

"We have a lot of injuries caused by falling out of chairs and down stairs. That's how Paul sprained his wrist last year. Art Emmelander broke his leg two years ago."

Her eyes were wide with astonishment. "And to think you are all educated, competent, highly paid professionals in real life." She followed him into the kitchen carrying coffee cups and empty juice glasses. "I suppose since you cooked I have to clean up?"

"Absolutely. I'm going to take a shower and then run to the store because I'm fresh out of steak, potatoes, and asparagus. Oh, and there is no rye bread, ham, or Swiss cheese. Actually, about the only food in the house were the eggs I used for the waffles."

"I have an idea. Why don't I take a shower with you, and clean the kitchen while you're at the store?"

He dropped a kiss on her unruly curly head as he moved past her out of the kitchen. "Because if you take a shower with me, I'll never get to the store."

"If I had clothes I could go with you," she called after him.

He poked his head back into the kitchen. "But I like you with no clothes," he said with a lascivious smirk. "Don't worry. I'll think of something to rectify the problem your lack of attire presents."

Thirty minutes later he was finally showered, dressed, and actually in the elevator on his way to the parking garage. He very nearly hadn't been able to leave the apartment because despite his express concern about showering together, Della had flung back the shower curtain and jumped in with him anyway, and he had neither the desire nor the ability to fend off her advances. Pinned against the cool white subway tiles, body slick with water and soap, head thrown back in ecstasy, legs wrapped around his waist, she was his every fantasy come true.

The unidentifiable feeling pricked at him again as he drove from his apartment to the Brent Building to drop in at Clay's for sandwiches and homemade potato chips for lunch. Colors seemed more vivid, the sun warmer and brighter, the air around him electrically charged. And did the birds always sing so loudly? He couldn't figure out what was so different.

At a stoplight two blocks from the office he glanced over and recognized the dress shop where Della mentioned she purchased most of her clothes. He made a right turn from the middle lane and pulled the big Cadillac into an empty parking space directly in front of the store. Ten minutes later, after a conversation with a Miss Agatha Carpenter in which he lied like one of his clients, he emerged with a silly grin and drove around the block to put him back on course for the Brent Building. At Clay's, he ordered two ham sandwiches on rye with Swiss cheese, dill pickles, homemade potato chips, and fresh lemonade to be boxed for a picnic, and sat at the counter waiting, sipping coffee and trying to figure out why he still felt so odd. By the time Clay handed a picnic box tied with twine to him, he was no closer to solving the puzzle of why he felt need to compete with the birds by bursting into song. A return visit to the dress shop, followed by a quick adventure at his neighborhood butcher and vegetable stand, and he was that much closer to returning to his apartment and the beautiful woman who awaited him. He actually did realize he was singing at one point, his own voice surprising him in the silence of his automobile.

Della was nowhere to be seen when he keyed open the apartment door, and his mood deflated somewhat. He had hoped she would meet him at the door, if only to immediately confirm that he wasn't in a walking dream. He kicked the door shut behind him with more force than necessary, the loud slam as it closed jarring the sun-drenched silence of his apartment. At the sound, Della flew out of the bedroom, still dressed in his shirt. She came to a screeching halt at the sight of the many packages he was laden with.

"Where on earth have you been all this time? And what is all that stuff?"

"Hello to you, too, darling," he grinned, moving past her and dumping bags and boxes on the square dining table.

"Why do you have all those bags from _Estelle's_?" She asked suspiciously.

"You need clothes," he reminded her with elaborate innocence. "I got you clothes."

Her eyes narrowed. "How did you get clothes for me?"

His grin was huge. "I lied my tail off to Miss Agatha Carpenter and she bought it."

Narrowed eyes widened in alarm. "Aggie? You talked to Aggie? How on earth am I going to explain this?"

"I told her we had to be out of town for urgent witness depositions and you wouldn't have time to go home and pack, so would she please put together a couple outfits."

She raised one eyebrow. "And why wouldn't I call the shop myself?"

"You are working on an extremely tight deadline, and since I had to drive right by the shop, I volunteered to relay your request."

"Wouldn't it have been much easier and less expensive to simply go to my apartment and grab some clothes?"

He looked pained. "Sure it would have. But it wouldn't have been nearly as fun. Besides, there is no way we could ever sneak you out of here in either your gown or my shirt. And furthermore, there is absolutely no way I am going to finger your unmentionables without you close at hand."

Laughter bubbled up in her at his last comment and she moved easily into his arms with a sigh. "I don't know if I'll ever grow accustomed to your grand style of doing things. It flies directly in the face of my deeply entrenched Midwestern practicality."

"Practicality be damned," he declared. "Open up the packages. I want to see what Miss Agatha picked out."

Since Perry had revealed a plan for a picnic lunch in the park across the street from his building, she decided to wear a pair of skinny capris with a cap-sleeved green blouse knotted at the waist and a matching headband in her hair. Agatha had thought of everything, from undergarments to shoes to an emergency make-up kit, and Della fervently hoped she could carry off Perry's story so as not to lose _Estelle's_ as her clothing source. Everything in the bags was exactly to her taste and liking, and judging from Perry's approving expression, to his as well.

By the time she dressed it was past noon, and her stomach was growling. Perry had left her to her own devices while he put away the food he'd purchased and prepared for the picnic.

A picnic. She shook her head in disbelief that her no-nonsense, sometimes impatient, often irritable boss would actually plan a picnic. But then, he wasn't just her boss any longer.

He was her lover.

She felt a blush creep across her cheeks as the reality of that concept and all it meant washed over her. She had awoken with a small amount of anxiety, which soon dissipated as their natural banter and frank way of speaking to one another intermixed pleasingly with brand-new expressions of affection. His forethought to take the day off to celebrate what she considered their anniversary was more than a symptom of an apparent personality shift. He loved her, and was showing her in ways he knew best to express himself. He rarely did anything half-way, his commitment to clients, to the law, to friends, to her, was legendarily grandiose and unwavering. She shouldn't have expected anything less of him once he admitted his feelings for her.

She gazed at herself appraisingly in the mirror, familiarizing herself with her new outfit, how to move in it to advantage. She was not one to obsess about her appearance, but she did so want to please Perry. She admitted to herself she was passably attractive – no one would run from her in horror. Paul Drake had begun calling her "Beautiful" almost from the moment of her introduction to him, and Perry insisted she was lovely, his "beautiful girl", but she lived in Los Angeles, a city where female beauty was everywhere, and fleshed-out platinum blondes ruled. Not a week went by without some gorgeous woman walking through the doors of the office to lay their problems at the feet of Perry Mason.

He was devastatingly attractive physically, and she'd seen his commanding self-assuredness reduce women to twittering idiots in his presence. She thanked Heaven he appeared to appreciate her physical attributes and that so far she'd been able to stand up to his intellect and provide him a reliable sounding board. He possessed a boyish glee for his profession, and could destroy her strongest arguments with his impish grin. From the very beginning he had treated her with respect, as an equal, never asking of her what he wouldn't gladly do himself. She had never met anyone like him before, had never felt such longing and love for a man. His mind was frighteningly agile, his knowledge of the law thorough, his methods bordering on devious, but brilliantly applied.

And last night she was ecstatic to discover his brilliance extended beyond the realm of the legal profession.

Not that she had a great amount of experience to compare, but enough to know that when it came to pleasing her, he had no equal. That he seemed every bit as pleased with her made her even more adventurous, because she suspected he had much more experience for comparison.

"I've been slaving in the kitchen over the sandwiches you had such a hankering for, preparing the picnic to end all picnics, and here you are, idly admiring yourself." He came up behind her and slid his arms around her waist. "But I must say, if I looked like you, I'd never move from in front of the mirror."

All insecurities about her looks faded as she leaned back in his arms. "You really are nice," she told him. "Aggie did a good job with the clothes."

He nuzzled her neck. "It's not the clothes," he disagreed, "it's the woman in them."

She turned swiftly and wrapped her arms around his middle, her ear turned flat against his chest. "We don't need to go outside for our picnic," she with an underlying wistfulness. "We could stay right here and have a picnic on the bed."

His laugh was free and quick. "I fear the food would go to waste if we stayed here, my darling. And I also fear that you have worn this old man out, Miss Street. I need time and sustenance to recover my form."

She looked up at him in amusement. "Then by all means, lead the way to the park."

Perry obviously knew the park very well and confidently led Della to a secluded area at the rear where there was long soft grass and plenty of shade trees. He spread a large faded quilt on the ground beneath what he claimed was his favorite tree, and placed the box of food from Clay's on one corner, a basket containing plates, utensils, napkins, and glassware next to it, and tossed a couple of pillows filched from the couch at the opposite end. They spent the remainder of the afternoon eating Clay's sandwiches and special chips, dozing, and playing heated games of rummy for the championship of the world, which Della ultimately won. After declaring her a card shark and a scoundrel, Perry packed up the debris of their picnic and pulled Della to her feet, suggested a walking tour of the park.

As they strolled hand-in-hand, Perry glanced at Della just in time to see a bright blue butterfly land on her headband squarely atop her head. She had absolutely no idea of its presence. Charmed by the sight, he silently filed it away as his own private memory of this day, the day after he had taken this enchanting, fascinating, graceful woman as his lover.

And at that moment it struck him why he had felt so different all day. He was happy. For the first time in his adult life, he was in love and happy and satisfied with his everything in his world. He stopped walking suddenly, dropped the basket and spun Della into his arms for a breathtaking kiss.

"What on earth was that for?" she inquired when he finally released her.

"That was because I love you," he replied, kissing her nose gently. "I know we can do it, Della – work together and be together, I mean. You make me happy by just being you."

She looked up at him, eyes shining a brilliant green reflected from her new blouse. "I think I could get used to hearing you say things like that."

"And if you don't hear things like that often enough, I hereby request that you occasionally nudge me. One of my many flaws is how I tend to get wrapped up in cases and ignore my personal life."

"I know all about your flaws. But since your professional life is now wrapped up in your personal life, that trend may reverse itself," she pointed out.

He gazed down at her for several moments, enraptured by her, his feelings too strong to find an appropriate voice. He let go of the feeling of unease about the extreme brightness of the sun, the aching beauty of birdsong, and the intoxicating aroma of summer grass. There was only his lovely Della, with a blue butterfly on her head, and the promise of a happy, surprising, wonderful life.

"Della, the next fifty years are going to be some kind of fun."

"Don't even think of proposing right now," she warned.

His smile was slow and satisfied. "I wouldn't dream of it, Miss Street."


	3. Chapter 3

_Note: Goodness, editing is SUCH a chore! I apologize it took so long to tag on this little "epilogue", but it sets up a very important point in my personal PM universe from which a few stories have sprung, and is a better bookend to the beginning of the story than Part Two. Deeply felt and sincere thanks to all for your readership and words of encouragement. I have loved Perry and Della for more years than most people have been alive, and I hope my take on their relationship does them and ESG justice. ~ D_

Part Three

He missed her.

It was nearly eleven o'clock p.m. Sunday night and Perry hadn't seen Della since after brunch, when she'd insisted upon being driven home so she could attend to personal chores, as well as to get some much needed rest. He'd protested, not wanting to let go of their new intimacy even for a few hours, but the more he protested, the more coy her responses became. He felt her withdrawing from his embrace, her naturally graceful movements unable to disguise an increasing tenseness. Bewildered by the change and unable to pull any answer from her but "nothing's wrong", he'd bundled her into his car along with all the bags and boxes from _Estelle's_, and driven slowly to her apartment. She cuddled against him the entire time, kissed him wantonly in the elevator, and at the door of her apartment whispered "I love you". Then she pushed him gently away and firmly closed the door.

He'd driven quickly back to his apartment and stood in the middle of his bedroom, staring at the neatly made bed where he had spent the better part of three days. Della had wanted to strip the bed and put on clean sheets, but he wouldn't allow it. The cleaning woman would do it Monday, he told her. What he really wanted was to crawl back under the covers and once again be enveloped in her familiar scent, reliving their exuberant lovemaking. He could still feel her in his arms, quivering and incoherent in release, the pleasure his body gave her driving him to his own shattering climax. His need was equaled only by hers, his desire reflected in eyes dark with an emotion so pure he could have wept with joy. He loved Della at a depth no woman had ever touched before, with a completeness he thought he was incapable of.

Desire was new to him. Sex had always been a pleasurable pastime spent with lovely women who were obvious in their attraction to him, and he'd prided himself at being an attentive lover. But truth be told, he'd taken more than he'd given, feeding off of the amorous thirst of his partner while maintaining control of his sensibilities. Oh, he had said "I love you" a few times, but love to Perry Mason had been an expansive concept. His love for a woman could be lumped in with his love of baseball, fishing, and good bourbon. His love for Della was singular, raw and vulnerable. He had no sensibilities in regard to Della, and wanted her to know him at his very core, where his overwhelming love for her had taken root.

About a thousand times he had reached for the phone, had her number partially dialed a hundred times, but each time decided against completing the call. She needed time, he'd decided, and so did he. She had known that instinctively, which is why she was now alone in her apartment and he was alone in his. They each needed to absorb the intimacy, needed to prepare for the coming week during which they would begin to balance their working relationship against their romantic relationship.

He was hugging the pillow to which her perfume clung, staring at the telephone, willing his hand not to reach for the receiver again, when it rang at ten past eleven With a grin, he picked up the receiver.

"If I was a betting man, I would have lost," he said by way of greeting.

She laughed. "What exactly what was your bet?"

"That I would break down first and call," he admitted. "I miss you."

"I miss you, too," she said softy. "I've been picking up and putting down the receiver all day."

His grin was wide and silly in the darkness of his bedroom.

"I can hear you grinning," she charged. "You did the same thing, didn't you?"

"I plead the fifth," he said with forced seriousness. Then in a low voice, "Only about a thousand times."

"We are a couple of silly people," she declared. "Especially me."

"Now why do you say that?"

"Because of the way I ran away from you today after brunch. I should have told you what was going on in my head."

He heard a tremor of regret in her voice, wanted so badly to be holding her, to be having this conversation face-to-face after making slow, soul-searing love to her. "We've always been honest with each other about what was on our minds. Nothing has changed that, Della. You can still tell me anything."

"I know I can. I got a little scared today, and – and I needed to be alone. I'm sorry."

"Oh baby," he said with a gentleness only she could bring out in him, "I've wanted you for so long I can understand how you might have felt a bit smothered the past few days."

"That's not it at all," she denied. "You didn't smother me. But half-way through brunch it struck me that you are my entire world, and I had a moment of panic. Perry, you are my boss, my best friend, and now my…" her voice trailed off into silence momentarily. "My lover," she continued in a quavering whisper. "I began to wonder who I could go to when my boss made me angry, or my best friend slighted me, or my lover hurt me."

Perry sat up in bed, holding the telephone receiver to his ear with white-knuckled apprehension. "Della, I'll be there in twenty minutes. We can't have a conversation like this over the telephone."

"But then I realized," she continued as if he hadn't spoken, "that I was being silly, because you've never been anything but honest and trusting and respectful with me. You get mad at me when I deserve it, encourage me when I need it, and always allow me to be myself. I couldn't help but fall in love with you, and there is no reason for me to be anything but blissfully happy that you love me too."

He sighed audibly. "Good grief, Della. We have to make a pact that late-night telephone conversations never get any heavier than "good night" and "I love you"."

"If we can't make "good night" and "I love you" heavy," she replied ruefully, "then we've both been uninvolved romantically for far too long."

He grinned into the phone at her. "Why Miss Street, would you actually consider being improper with me on the phone?"

Her answering yawn was loud and elaborate. "Not a chance tonight, Mr. Mason. But I wouldn't rule it out for future late-night conversations."

"I have something to tell you," he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

"Will I like it?"

"I think so. It's something I've known for a long time."

"Ooooh, a secret! Does anyone else know?"

"There are suspicions, but I don't think anyone knows for certain. Are you ready?"

"Aren't you going to swear me to secrecy?"

"No. You'll have to decide whether it remains a secret or not after I tell you."

"That's a lot of responsibility. Are you sure you want to tell me? What if I blab it all over town? You do remember I know people in the tabloid business."

He chuckled softly. "What you do with this bit of information is entirely up to you. I won't protest no matter what you decide."

"I'll hold you to that. Go ahead, I'm all ears."

He pressed his mouth close to the receiver. "I love you," he said quietly. "And you _**are**_ the last woman I will say that to."


End file.
